Murder at the National Gallery (11 page)

Upon returning to his office that day, and in violation of his commitment to keep those in the know to a small number—he
knew that if he didn’t bring in the trustees from the start, he might not be around for the Caravaggio show—Whitney convened a meeting that night. Joining him in the boardroom were seven of the Gallery’s nine trustees. The two absent members comprised half of the four-person contingent decreed to come from government; the other five had no government connection. Whitney preferred dealing with the government faction, because not being collectors, they tended to defer more readily to his ideas than the others. Besides, the government had little control over the Gallery’s daily activities. Its funds were mandated by Congress—changes of administration meant virtually nothing where money was concerned. Of course, there was always the push by a new administration for patronage jobs, all of which were summarily rejected.

Still, it was nice to have a White House like the Jeppsen-Aprile version demonstrating a particular interest in art. No sense turning one’s back on it. The executive branch might not exactly feed the Gallery, but there was nothing to be gained, and perhaps much to be lost, by biting its hand.

The trustees placed no stumbling blocks in what had become, by that time, Whitney’s shared enthusiasm for bringing
Grottesca
to the National Gallery. There were the expected questions about the unusual circumstances of the painting’s discovery by Luther Mason, and the manner in which it would leave Italy for its brief residency in Washington. But Whitney urged that Luther, as a foremost Caravaggio expert, be given a free hand. Once the work was securely in the Gallery, he assured them, he, Courtney Whitney III, would take personal charge.

He asked the trustees for public silence until he made the official announcement at the first of two dinners and ended the meeting with a final comment about the unusual conditions of bringing the masterpiece to Washington: “Unorthodox, perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, but no more so than the artist himself.”

The following morning, he chaired a series of meetings, including one at which Annabel Reed-Smith represented the White House Arts Council. By that time there had been discreet
communications between Mrs. Aprile and the council, the National Gallery, and Italy’s Ministry of Culture confirming the details of how
Grottesca
would travel to the United States.

The rumor that a world-class announcement would be made at the dinner had resulted in a crush of media requests to attend. The public-information office urged that a press conference be held prior to the dinner, but Mason was squarely against that idea and pressed Whitney to quash it. “So much more potent, Court, to allow the news to emerge from the dinner. The more mystery the better. Build the suspense.”

Whitney was persuaded. Only top dogs from carefully selected news organizations were invited to the dinner, and they were asked simply to enjoy the evening—no snooping, no questions, no reporting. But press releases were prepared in advance for handing out afterward.

The question of who would make the announcement about
Grottesca
had also been a topic for debate.

Whitney had thought carefully about it. If
he
made the announcement—which would be expected—it might appear that he was stealing Mason’s thunder, something he was perfectly willing to do, provided it didn’t look as though he were doing it. He had asked Luther if he would prefer being the bearer of good news. “After all,” he said, “it was you who made this possible.”

Mason didn’t hesitate. “No, Court. It’s the director’s responsibility and privilege. Thank you for offering, but you’re the appropriate person to do it.”

Whitney checked his watch. Time to go. As he slipped into his evening jacket and checked his appearance in a mirror, down the hall Luther Mason was in the midst of a heated discussion with the defrocked priest.

“Absolutely not,” Mason said.

Pasquale Giocondi, who wore his “uniform” for the evening—brown habit, sandals, and a large wooden cross suspended from a leather thong—shrugged and said, “I did not realize when I agreed to do this that so much would be at stake,
Signor Mason. You are asking me to take part in a crime,
si
? But for so little money. I must weigh the risk.”

“There is no risk,” Mason said sharply. “All the risk is mine. All you have to do is say a few words about—”

“A few lies, you mean.”

“From what I understand, lying is not alien to you, Father Giocondi. Nor is crime.”

Another shrug from Giocondi. “I will not take your insult personally. And I will not go through with this unless you pay me more.”

The door opened and Court Whitney poked his head into the boardroom, a practiced smile lighting his face. “Ready, Father?” he asked. “Your audience awaits.”

Giocondi looked to Mason; arched dyed eyebrows asked a question. Luther’s face was tight as he nodded. “All right,” he mumbled.

“Yes, I am ready, Signor Whitney. I look forward to meeting your honored guests.”

Mason stood and waited for Giocondi to do the same. “Court, I think it would be wise to spare the Father from the media who are here. We’ll handle all the questions at a later press conference. Father Giocondi should be sheltered from that.”

“Probably prudent, Luther. By the way, I’ve decided that after I announce the discovery of
Grottesca
, I’ll introduce you to say a few words and to introduce Father Giocondi.”

“I really don’t think that’s—”

“Spare me your modesty, Luther.” He slapped his senior curator on the back. “Come on. The hors d’oeuvres will be gone.”

They rode down in the elevator and took the underground moving walkway connecting the East and West buildings. As they stepped off, Giocondi stopped to admire a waterfall created by twenty-four jets of water in the exterior courtyard that linked the buildings. The water spewed six feet into the air and then ran down multiple tiny concrete steps to an expanse of glass that ran floor to ceiling.
“Bello! Bello!”
he exclaimed.

“Come,” Whitney urged.

By the time they joined the cocktail party, most of the guests had become aware of a painting covered by a red-velvet drape and mounted on an easel on steps leading up to an inactive fountain in the West Garden Court. It was flanked by two uniformed guards. Spotlights on portable metal stands were trained on the easel but had not yet been turned on.

“What is it?” one person asked another.

“Is this the big surprise we’ve been hearing about?”

“What could it be?”

“Scott, you must know what’s under that drape.”

Only satisfied, knowing smiles from M. Scott Pims. “Patience,” he replied to those inquiries. “All in due time.”

“That pompous, phony bastard,” a man said. “He doesn’t know any more than we do, just likes to make us think he does.”

With the appearance of Mason, Whitney, and the skinny little old priest in brown robe and sandals, attention went to them. People speculated on who the monk was.

Whitney circulated with his wife, leaving Mason and Giocondi on their own. Luther led Giocondi to a relatively quiet area behind the musicians. But he couldn’t hide. People kept coming up to congratulate Luther on his success at mounting the Caravaggio exhibition, which meant, of course, having to introduce Giocondi. “This is Father Pasquale Giocondi,” he said quickly. “He’s here from Italy and is my special guest this evening.” That sufficed for most people, although others attempted to engage Giocondi in conversation. Mason answered most of their questions for the priest.

Eventually, the guests were seated for dinner at candlelit tables of eight in the West Garden Court and the West Sculpture Hall. There was no dais. A lectern and microphone had been positioned to the side of the dry fountain, near the shrouded easel.

Court Whitney, the gallery trustees, and the vice president and other high-ranking representatives from government occupied tables nearest the fountain. A large contingent from the Italian Embassy, including Carlo Giliberti, took up two tables. Luther Mason and Father Giocondi sat at a table surprisingly
distant from the center of the action, considering that Luther was, in most eyes, the star of the evening. But he hadn’t wanted to be close to others. He chose this table when Special Events was making seating assignments and arranged for Scott Pims; Julian, Luther’s son from his first marriage; Julian’s date; and three members of his curatorial staff to sit with him and Giocondi. It was, for Luther, a safe table.

Mac and Annabel’s table included members of the National Gallery’s senior administrative staff. Once antipasto was served, the topic of conversation quickly turned to the priest.

“Any idea who he is?” someone asked.

The others shook their heads. One gentleman speculated, “Maybe Caravaggio confessed his sins to him.”

“The way this show is shaping up,” said another, “we could use some heavenly intervention.” She was the writer in the Education Department responsible for developing educational Caravaggio materials for schoolchildren. “Caravaggio was a barbarian,” she told her dinner companions. “Assault on the via della Scrofa. Imprisoned in Tor di Nona. Attacking people with swords. Murder in Rome. Rape. Thievery. An out-and-out scoundrel.”

That set off the usual debate over the role an artist’s personal life should play in evaluating his creative output. Another round of discussions centered on whether Caravaggio was homosexual, bisexual, or merely high-spirited. It was a lively and spirited table; the good conversation carried through the meal, until Whitney stepped to the lectern and asked for everyone’s attention.

After an interminable number of introductions and acknowledgments, Vice President Aprile spoke: “I’m honored to be here this evening,” he said, “but I think Carole is the one to make any remarks about the purpose of the evening. She’s the Caravaggio expert in this family. And, I might add, in this administration.”

Carole Aprile pledged the full and continuing support of the White House Arts Council to the exhibition.

Whitney resumed his position at the microphone and said, “Judging from the splendid turnout this evening, having a
rumor circulating around town that something important would be announced was good for business.” There was some laughter. “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. The fact is that this institution has been instrumental in finding one of the art world’s most important lost treasures. Ironically, it is a work by the genius we celebrate tonight, whose majestic creative achievement will grace these walls a few months from now.” He went to the draped painting. The spotlights came on, giving brilliant life to the red velvet. Whitney untied two red silk ribbons and slowly pulled the drape away. Gallery photographers took pictures.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Whitney, “I proudly present to you Caravaggio’s lost masterpiece,
Grottesca
.”

A smattering of gasps from the knowing cut through a muttered chorus of, “What is it? What’s
Grottesca
?”

“For some background on the monumental importance of this painting, I’d like Senior Curator Luther Mason to say a few words. As most of you know, Luther is one of the world’s foremost experts on Caravaggio and is our curator for the exhibition. Luther’s dedication to seeing that Caravaggio is presented in all his glory to the American people at this institution is exemplary. To have accomplished this in one’s lifetime is achievement enough. But a month ago, Luther returned from yet another of his many trips to Rome and told me a remarkable story. I wish him to share that story with you now. Luther, the floor is yours.”

Mason walked tentatively to the lectern and peered at the crowd. The director’s introduction had focused the guests’ collective attention on what he was about to say. All eyes and ears were trained on him.

He looked back to his table. His son, Julian, stood and held out his date’s chair, and they left the room. “Luther’s son looks so
angry
,” Annabel whispered to Mac.

Despite being upset by Julian’s untimely departure, Luther cleared his throat and slowly recounted his version of events leading to the discovery of
Grottesca
. When he’d completed his tale, he said, “The parish priest I mentioned, Father Pasquale Giocondi, is here tonight as a special guest of the
National Gallery of Art. Father Giocondi, who is now retired, agreed to be here to share in this important moment. It took some real arm-twisting to get him to say something, but I’m pleased he has acquiesced. Father Giocondi?”

There was a buzz from the audience as Giocondi walked purposefully to the lectern.
“Signore e signori,”
he said, “it is a great honor for me to be here this evening as a guest of Mr. Mason and the National Gallery of Art. I also say that it is frightening for a man such as myself, who has spent his life offering humble service to his Lord, and to his flock. Some might think it was—how do you say?—an accident for me to have met Mr. Mason. But I disagree. I believe that God directed me to be where Mr. Mason was on that day because Caravaggio was a true servant of our Lord. He painted with religious conviction and passion. His great talent was given by God to be used in his service. It pleases me to think that I have played some small part in allowing his greatest work of all to be here, to be seen and enjoyed by millions of people.”

Applause.

Luther stood behind Giocondi. His broad smile said to everyone that he was pleased with what the former priest was saying. In reality, it was a smile of relief. Carlo had been right. Giocondi was good. Smooth. Appropriately humble, yet demonstrating pride in his contribution to the evening and the coming exhibition. And his English was just right, easy to understand but with enough of an accent to add panache.

Giocondi spoke for another ten minutes, and Mason’s relief was sustained. He stuck to the script Luther had created for him. Everything he said supported Luther’s bogus official version of how he’d found
Grottesca
, the chance meeting of the two men in a Ravello cafe, the casual trip Luther took to the old church, his shock at seeing what he believed was Caravaggio’s lost masterpiece.